The Shoulders of Atlas
by ink and ashes
Summary: Elizabeth Parker apologizes when no one else will.


**NOTES: **This may, or may not, remain a one-shot.

**THANKS: **To Whimsy, who reads my everything. Love**  
><strong>

_I am not too blind to know  
>All the pain you kept inside you,<em>

_Even though you might not show_

x x x

**THE SHOULDERS OF ATLAS**

She doesn't hover, doesn't force him to talk about his feelings. She leaves him alone in the guest room, gives him space, only intrudes to bring him schoolwork and dinner. It's a relief from all of the pestering he gets from Max and Isabel and Maria and fucking _everyone_; the few times he'd ventured out of his hole to linger around the Crashdown, he'd had the rotten luck of running into the few people that actually seemed to give a shit about his absence and were it not for Liz and her insistence that "Michael needs to rest," he would have faced the Inquisition for hours on end.

So he stays in the Parker's spare room and stares at the ceiling, restless and tired and wondering why he'd given into Liz and her offer.

_Because it was better than going back to that shitbox._

He sighs, rubbing his hands down his face, wincing when his ring scrapes against the still-healing bruise.

He should have had Max heal the damned thing. That had been the plan, after all: hide in a stall, try to get Max alone and get him to heal this ugly splatter of blue and black. He could always evade Max's scrutiny because the other boy was so wrapped up in his own little world, it was easy to distract him. No one would have been the wiser.

But Liz had shown up early to school that day with her big eyes that saw too fucking much. He knew how her mind worked, knew when she put the pieces together, knew the moment she decided to intervene when it was none of her fucking business to begin with. He'd tried to shrug her off, tell her off, scare her off, but she was stubborn as all hell and refused to budge, practically begging him to forget about school for the day and come back to her house. Perhaps his incredulity had played a part in his acquiescence because he'd found himself sitting her dad's old truck, his head in a thousand different directions when he walked into the Parker home with Liz clinging to the sleeve of his jacket like a lifeline. Jeff Parker had taken a look at his face, spoken a few words to his daughter, and nodded.

That was it. A look, a word, a nod.

He must have looked pretty bad to have Parker's dad let him stay here. The guy hadn't even said anything about Liz missing school for a day, and he knew that shit was really important to the Parkers. He remembers reading a few passages in Liz's journal about how her parents were all bent on her getting into Harvard, or some other Ivy League college. She'd seemed pretty content with that, happily going about her studies before the shooting. Now, it was all about Max. He wonders if it's still the same, wonders if she found a better hiding place for her special tome.

It's only been seventy-six hours. He's kept count, but he admits that he's drifted a few times so the exact time may be off.

He showers when she's at school because he'd rather use her personal bathroom than run the risk of walking into Nancy Parker in the buff. He uses some of Jeff's old clothes, though some of them are snug on his frame. He eats what Jeff brings him up during the day, or what Liz brings him on her break. He knows Liz has been running interference, barring Max from her balcony, refusing to allow Maria and Isabel to come up and hound him; she seems to understand that he doesn't want to talk yet, doesn't want to deal with anyone, doesn't want to do anything. He appreciates that, though he never says it. No one says anything to him, just smiles. He doesn't smile back. They don't seem to mind.

He likes it that way.

He's doesn't know when the expiration date on this little getaway comes into play, but he doesn't want to think about going back to school, going back to Hank, dealing with the questions, dealing with _anything_. It's nice to pretend he can exist in this bubble, lying on a borrowed mattress, in borrowed clothes, on borrowed time while he listens to the distant sounds of the customers below him. For once, he feels like he can _breathe_. All he needs are his CDs and this would be perfect.

It's late when he wakes up, unaware that he had dozed off to begin with. There's a soft knocking on his door that he answers with a quiet "Come in," his voice hoarse from disuse.

She's still in that tiny uniform, her antennae bobbing as she pokes her head through. Her small, strong hands are holding a tray with a plate full of the chef's special, he's sure. Rolling his neck, he sits up, still uncomfortable with people serving him but too _goddamned tired_ to protest. Idly, he wonders if he's getting lazy, spoiled.

"Hungry?" she asks, and he stares at her because it's the first thing she's said to him in a while.

"Sure," he says. He feels the energy drain from that single word.

She nods and places the tray on the nightstand, pulling out two bottles of Tabasco from her apron pocket. He's surprised when she sits on the corner of the bed, one leg tucked beneath her, but he figures that it's _her _house and she can do whatever the fuck she wants. He reaches for the plate, his stomach urging him to devour as much food as possible, his eyes watching her; she never stays for the meal, just drops it off and leaves. This is a new development. He tries not to think about it.

He's brushing off the last of the fries when she finally speaks, toying with the hem of her apron. She looks exhausted. "How are you feeling?"

He has the good sense to swallow his mouthful before answering. "Fine."

Her eyes jump up to meet his, hard. "Michael," she says simply.

"What?" He should have expected this sooner or later, but he's been holding out for _never_.

She takes a moment, watching him. Probably figuring out the best way to say, _Get the fuck out of my house. _On a shaky breath, she confesses, "I've been doing some research. I've asked around and spoke to the Sheriff—"

"Why the _fuck_—?" He is furious, tense, _betrayed_.

"Hear me out," she pleads, and because he trusts Liz Parker, he does. "I spoke to the Sheriff, your social worker and Mister Evans. No, I didn't tell Max or Isabel about this," she adds at his venomous glare, "but he's a lawyer and I needed his advice. I would have told you about this sooner but…" she trails off, glancing at her apron before recovering her composure. The words are left unsaid, but he knows that she's been giving him some time, some space. This is what she's been doing with all of that elbow room, apparently. "You have two choices, Michael: one, you can go back to foster care and they'll place you with another family—"

"Fuck that—"

"—or two," she says over his angry outburst, "you can file a petition for emancipation."

He frowns. He's never heard of that before. "What?"

"Emancipation," she repeats. "It means you won't need a guardian. You'd have to go in front of a judge and plead your case—"

He tunes her out. Yeah, like _that_ would go well. He has a problem with authority and the feeling is mutual. No way would a judge ever hear him out. "I'll go with three," he scoffs. "Thanks for the food, but I gotta run."

She scrambles to her feet when he stands, big eyes round with surprise. "You _can't_ go back there, Michael. Don't you see? There's another way."

He glares at her, his hackles rising. "What do _you_ know?" he spits. "That tin can isn't your Bubblegum Palace, _princess_, but it's all I've got."

She falters. "You deserve better than that, Michael. You _are _better than that."

"Look," he sighs, drained all over again. She's got that doe-eyed look down pat and he doesn't have the strength to argue with her. "It's complicated, okay? I need Hank and that trailer."

She frowns deeply. He elaborates a little. "He keeps me focused." He can't help but think that he's revealed too much.

There's a beat of thick, heavy silence. He _knows_ he's said too much when all she does is watch him with the saddest expression he's ever seen. The waterworks aren't too far behind but if he makes it to the door, he's pretty sure he can outrun it; he's seen Isabel cry before and he can stomach the strange clenching in his chest for his sister, but he will _not_ suffer the same for Liz. That's _Max's _job, not his.

It's just too uncomfortable to think about.

When she ducks her head, he moves quickly.

He barely touches the knob when her fingers reach out and tangle in the fabric of his shirt, clutching the material tightly in her hands. In spite of himself, he pauses, unsure.

She's still looking at the ground, still grasping his shirt when she says, "It's not your fault."

"What're you talking about?"

She lifts her head a little, her gaze level with his abdomen. "I'm…" Her voice is a strangled murmur, stranger than he's ever heard before. "I'm sorry."

Now he's just confused. Did he miss something?

But she's not done; when Parker gets an idea in her head, she bites down hard and doesn't let it go. He's still not sure if that's a good or bad thing. "I'm sorry that you were left behind when the Evanses found Max and Isabel. I'm sorry I never said anything when we were kids… when I noticed the bruises."

He freezes.

"I'm sorry that the teachers never did anything. I'm sorry that your social worker never saw it. I'm sorry that the Sheriff never paid enough attention. I'm sorry no one bothered to ask."

This is too weird for words. He's not sure what to say, what to do, how to feel.

Her voice is getting louder, stronger, the tremor lessening the more she speaks. "I'm sorry you were alone. I'm sorry I was so caught up in my silly little love life that I never bothered to look closer, even when I went to your trailer that day. I'm sorry I never questioned it, never saw the signs when they're so obvious. I'm _so _sorry, Michael." She met his eyes again. "It's not your fault. It's _mine_."

A large, painful lump has taken up its residence in his throat, making it hard to talk. He can't figure out her angle. "Wha… Parker, you didn't…" He can't even figure out what to say to that.

"_My _fault," she insists vehemently, tugging on his shirt. "You were just a child and you didn't—_don't—_deserve what he's done to you. It's _not_ your fault. It's _not_." Another desperate tug. "I know there's a part of you that's subconsciously rationalizing his behavior and you believe that there's a reason for him to hurt you, that you somehow _earned_ that kind of punishment when you were just a child and what you _needed_ was love. And for some reason, you blame _yourself_, and you can't. I won't let you." Her antennae bob back and forth with the strength of her fervor. She's going to rip his shirt off at this rate. "So blame _me_. It's my fault. Hate _me_. I could have done something but I didn't, so blame _me_."

There are a million different possible reactions to her bizarre proclamation. None of them fit, not when she's got his head all fucked up like this.

So he laughs.

It startles him, at first, but the laughter feels good in an odd way. He walks back to the mattress and slumps down, still laughing. He slouches forward, elbows leaning on his knees. He laughs so hard, there are tears in his eyes because, seriously, Elizabeth Parker has lost her fucking mind in order to come up with that kind of ass-backwards thinking. He laughs and laughs and _laughs_ until the sounds coming from his esophagus warp into some kind of deranged sob and the tears are flowing down his cheeks and he's not laughing anymore.

Only when Liz moves to stand between his thighs, wrapping her arms around his shoulders does he realize what's going on and when he does, he buries his face in her soft stomach, hiding the truth as best as he can. Her ridiculous uniform is soaked within minutes but she does not complain, dragging her fingers through tufts of his hair, massaging his scalp.

He clutches at her spine, ashamed. Terrified. He feels too much and understands too little.

"It's not your fault," he hears her whisper, and beneath the frightening agony, beneath the tepid waters of despair, he feels, for the first time in his short life, the tentative touch of hope.

x x x

_I'll be the reason for your pain_

… _and you can put the blame on me._


End file.
